


one.

by speciation



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Stigmatic Sam, Vague Dean/Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speciation/pseuds/speciation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You know how this ends. There’s nothing you can do to change it, so make peace with it now. Ready your hands for the callus, shred the cloth for bandages, prepare the rosaries.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Lessons on Loving a Prophet - Jeanann Verlee</p>
            </blockquote>





	one.

He shoves Cas backwards and Cas lets him. The lamp and clock on the bedside table rattle and Dean’s reminded to keep his voice down; Sam will not hear this.

 

“Did you know.” Dean grips Cas’s collar tight in his fist and twists, as if he can force the words out of him. “Cas, _did you fucking know,”_ he whispers, mindful of Sam, always these days mindful, bathing in the other room.

 

Cas doesn’t answer, but that’s all Dean needs. His grip slackens and his face crumples in on itself.

 

“You couldn’t tell us Cas? You couldn’t tell us this is how it was going to end, after fucking everything?” Dean feels his knees going weak, because this is it, there’s no deal he can make for this, no demon he can barter with, no spell or hex bag or bandage. It’s Sam’s redemption, and it’s one he wants desperately, and there’s nothing Dean can do about it, only one way for this to end.

 

Castiel grips his elbow to keep him steady as he shakes, and says, “no. The names of the blessed are not given to us.” Dean sinks to the bed and Cas falls with him, still gripping his elbow. “Please, Dean, understand. This is a blessing, a miracle, and one that Sam wants, even though it is difficult.”  

 

He stops talking when Dean starts shaking his head, but if it’s in denial of the situation or the words Cas can’t tell. Cas wants him to look up from the bedspread, wants to see the things he’s feeling in Dean’s eyes.

 

Dean does look up, meets Cas’s gaze, and Cas feels his chest constrict tightly in almost physical pain. Dean can feel the tears on his face, knows he’s crying, but doesn’t care.

 

“Cas, he’s my brother, he’s Sammy. He’s not a martyr or a saint or anything else, that man in there is my goddamn _brother_.” Dean’s not sure what happens, but next he knows his face is buried in Cas’s stomach, the angel’s arms wrapping hesitantly around his shoulders.

 

“I know, Dean, and I am sorry.” Cas whispers gently into Dean’s hair, knowing there’s not truly any good words for this, but he can try to comfort the man almost sobbing, shaking his vessel with the force of his sorrow. Dean thinks he doesn’t know; Castiel looks at his brother like he’s the Second Coming, but Dean can only see the six year old who wouldn’t eat his sandwich unless he cut the crust off first. “This is a burden he bears willingly, and for his suffering he shall be rewarded greatly, as they all are. Dean, look at me.”

 

Dean does, eyes red rimmed, and presses the heel of his hand to his face before Cas continues. “Sam will need you for this. This is something he has to carry alone, but he will need you, like he always has. We all have a part in this, and I know, intimately, how little you care for those words, but it is true. I am sorry, Dean. I never wanted you, or Sam, to suffer like this.”

 

Dean nods and breathes deep, forcing himself back under control. He can’t say anything, not yet, but he knows Cas will stay now, will help him as he helps Sam. So he nods and stands, moves towards the bathroom where Sam surely needs help changing his wrappings now, and Cas stays seated. He’s not okay, not yet, maybe not ever, but Sam needs him, and that comes always first.

 

His hand wrapped around the doorknob, the scent of lilies in the air, he looks back to the angel seated on the bed. Hands clasped and head bowed Cas prays, and Dean, knowing he’ll open the door to the bathroom to find a tub full of bloody water, soaked rags on the floor, his brother gaunt and almost helpless with wounds in his feet and hands, blood spilling gently from punctures on his forehead, feels something settle in his chest. It’s a heavy weight, he thinks, this cross his little brother has to carry, but he can share the load.

 

::::

 

His veins turn to eden and sweet smelling blood like the nectar of flowers flows from his hands and feet to the tile below, heavenly water on a parched land. _Blessing, blessing, blessing_ he thinks, over and over in his head until it becomes a mantra, a prayer wheel spinning endlessly and joyously, erasing the pain, or blotting it out it like clean cotton; he only wishes his brother could see it. Dean does not see the blessing, only the curse; the pain and not the cleanse. But this thing has taken his tainted blood, the very thing that made him corrupt, his heavy heart and guilty head, and made him whole and worthy, and that’s all he’s ever wanted.

 

He lays in the bath his brother drew for him, stares at hands and feet his brother cleaned, and regrets not his pain but only the pain this will bring his brother, his best friend. _Blessing, blessing, blessing_ he reminds himself, tipping his head back and inhaling the smell of Easter lilies, the smell of sanctity and holiness and rebirth. Dean calls it a stench, cloying, and Sam thinks only _blessing, blessing, blessing._

 

His brother will come, and rinse and dry him, and bandage his feet and hands over and over, uselessly stemming the flood. His brother will come, and Sam will spare a few thoughts for Dean’s; what is Dean’s prayer, in his head, that he does not say aloud? Does he too spin a wheel, over and over and over, but one of _not my brother, not my brother, not like this,_ even though Sam has begged him to see it through his eyes? He’s at peace with this, and he hopes that Dean will come to be, if not today, then tomorrow, and maybe Castiel will help him get there. He understands, though, knows that Dean only sees pain and blood and agony here, can’t feel the righteous absolution in every twinge and ache. It’s a short road to the Hill, defined by the measure of blood in his body, and when his veins empty the road too will end, and Dean will be left weeping and cursing at his feet, and this Sam regrets, but never the _blessing, blessing, blessing_ of the thing.

 

Like red wine the blood seeps between his fingers, from his forehead and into his eyes, coloring the bath water and dyeing his skin. He can’t be disgusted, can’t even think it, because this thing that was his curse is now his blessing, his blessing, his blessing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [inspired mostly by askance's work on tumblr, feel free to check out the mashiach tag, because this is like a bad parody of her stuff.]


End file.
